


Tomorrow Comes

by Sarah531



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: Gen, Not sure if there's anything worse than what's in the Brick?, slight references to child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah531/pseuds/Sarah531
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Azelma Thenardier never makes it to America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lady In Black

**Author's Note:**

> The Brick says that Thenardier _set out_ for America with Azelma, but (very handily...) it never says she made it all the way.

Before the carriage had even left Paris, her father began speaking of the slave trade and America and the opportunities that awaited them. He seemed to glow in the prospect of causing more misery to others, and Azelma thought of her sister and her brother and she opened the carriage door.

They weren't going very fast but she wouldn't have cared if they were. She leapt away and her hands thudded on the ground, and mud splashed between her fingers, and she heard her father yell. And then she ran. She was used to running and she did it well, and she wept to think her father might be chasing her, and she wept to think he _wasn't_.

She came to a stop in a neighbourhood she vaguely recognised, and no-one gave her a second glance. A old wound in her hand, previously long forgotten, was aching. She huddled in the front of a closed shop and waited for night for fall.

She thought about going to the elephant, but she couldn't bear to be reminded of her brother. Even though there would be shelter and maybe warmth there, it would be like sleeping in a coffin. This made her think of the fact that neither her brother or sister had _had_ coffins, that they lay unprotected in the mud and the dust, and she wept bitterly in the darkness.

*

She slept for a while but then she lay on the ground, drifting between sleep and waking and greatly preferring the former. Then she slowly became aware of someone shaking her, and not gently. Her first intinct was to ignore them, but they didn't go away. She looked up and saw what she thought were the eyes of her brother, and she wondered if she'd frozen to death in the night, but she decided as she rose that maybe she hadn't. It wasn't Gavroche, it wasn't anyone she knew.

"Why are you sleeping here?" the person asked. He was a boy of about nine. "Have you no family?"

"Of course I do. _Everyone_ does," she retorted. She had lived the past few years by desperately clinging to and worshipping what she _did_ have, placing it above all else, and she felt she still should. She could feel her father lurking behind her, telling her how lucky she was to still have him.

"They mustn't be good 'uns," said the boy, "leaving you out here."

"It's no business of yours."

"It _is_ ," said the boy. "'cos I've seen you now, all cold and miserable, and I can't leave you here."

"And yet I give you my permission."

But he offered a hand. Azelma noted his clean nails and she was unsettled, but not in the same way she was usually unsettled. There was something in his eyes that reminded her of happier times, although she couldn't say for certain why, as the happier times were very far away after all.

"I come out here every night looking for someone," he said. "I keep finding other people instead. You should come with me, it'll be better than out here."

She thought about it. She wondered about what Éponine would say. Éponine would have said no, but she was not her. "Fine," she said, drawing herself up. "But if this is a trick or a joke, I'll hurt you. I'll bite you."

"My little brother bites," the boy said, unpeturbed.

They went on their way through the darkened streets.

*

"Where are we going?" Azelma demanded, as they descended into the more central neighbourhoods. The shadows seemed longer and the few lights in windows glistened like cat's eyes. "You could be- you could be one of those children hired out to deviants or murderers. Come to lure me away or- or bake me in a pie! I have a father! I'd be missed!"

"I'm not _none_ of that," the boy said, affronted. "I'm taking you to where I live."

He was much smaller than her, she could easily overpower him if she needed to. Knock him the ground, turn out his pockets, _unless_ of course he had fully grown friends... "And what's that, a castle in the air?"

"A house!"

Azelma thought of the first house she had lived in. There had been dolls, and a kitten. "I don't even know your name."

"Pierre," said the boy.

"And your last name?"

"I don't have one."

He paused then, possibly expecting her to give _her_ name or names, but she didn't. They had reached a familiar street and she had stopped dead.

"I'm not going down there," she said as Pierre looked at her questioningly. "My sister and brother died on that street. I saw their bodies being laid out, people just stepped right over them. There was blood everywhere. I'm never going near it again." Her voice dropped and seemed to echo back at her from the darkness of the shadows. " _Never_."

"Then we'll go around another way." Pierre said.

Surprised by his lack of questioning, she followed him. They went through the alleyways, which smelled as bad as she remembered them.

"My name is Azelma," she found herself saying to the boy. "Azelma Thenardier."

"That's pretty," he said, sounding very young, which of course he actually _was_. After a few moments he added, "I heard there was a battle here 'bout a year ago. Your brother and sister-"

"I don't want to talk about it!" she snapped.

He let her be for a few minutes and she continued to follow him. But he eventually bit his lip and said, "Lots of the people who died there, they had sisters and brothers and children-"

"Shut up!" she said, in a louder voice than she had used for quite some time. " _Shut up_!"

"But we're here," he mumbled.

Azelma looked up to see a reasonably sized house, a lone candle flickering in the window. She didn't trust it, she had never truly trusted much at all, but she cleared her throat and said, "Who lives here?"

"A lady in black."

"I don't like ladies."

"Not a _lady_ lady, just a woman who is kind. She let me and my brother sleep here, she let lots of children sleep here. She'd let you too."

"How charitable!" Azelma spat, anxious and uncomfortable. "What does she want in return?"

"Nothing!" Pierre said. "She lets all come and go as they please, I swear! The door's unlocked, try it."

She did and it was, and it did nothing to quell her uneasiness. What fool left any gateway, any place of safety unlocked? The door opened to another candle flickering on a table. Near that, there sat a pile of clean clothes upon a chair, and books piled on the floor.

"I don't like it," she announced, more to break the silence than anything else. "And I can't read books."

"I can't, either," said Pierre. Then he grabbed her arm, which she didn't like. "The lady's awake!" And she could hear someone moving on an upper floor. "You don't have to call her the Lady. I call her Madame Musichetta. She can fix a bed for you."

"I've slept! You saw me sleep." She was imagining this Lady to be something dark and terrible, something from out of the ghost stories 'Ponine would tell her when they were younger. "I...my father will come! My father will come and find me! You'll be sorry then!"

The Lady stepped into the room. Pierre had lied about her, because she wasn't wearing black, just a grey nightdress. Her hair was long and red.

"Your father misses you, child?" she asked, in a tone of anxiety that matched Azelma's own. "Your father searches for you?"

Something went _thud_ in Azelma's mind. Perhaps it was the woman's concern, no adult save her mother had shown her that in _years_. "No," she said dully. "No. He doesn't. He has gone to America to trade slaves and make his fortune. And my sister, brother and mother are dead."

"I found her asleep in the streets," Pierre said. "She might have frozen or been taken off by men! Did I do well, 'Chetta?"

"I ran away!" said Azelma, speaking over him. "I didn't want to go to America. I don't." The Lady's gaze was sad and unnerving. "But my father will come looking for me! I mean, he _may_."

"Do you wish him to?" said the Lady.

Azelma quivered, although she wasn't sure why, and shook her head just a little.

"I'll show you to a room," said the lady Musichetta. "You may sleep as long as you like, and come and go as you please-"

"I told you!" chirped Pierre.

"-and you can have breakfast in the morning. And you did _very_ well, little one." Pierre smiled. His two front teeth were missing. "Here, let me lead you."

And Azelma followed, bewildered.


	2. Breakfast

When she awoke in the morning she wondered once more if she had died, before she remembered. The bedsheets were so soft and so numerous that they felt crushing and claustophobic and _wrong_ , like she was underground with her brother and sister. She kicked them away.

The bedroom was bigger than any other bedroom she had known. It was sparsely furnished, but there were pictures on the wall, and a mirror. She hadn't seen a mirror for a very long time but she avoided looking at it, she had no wish to see more ugliness.

There were voices echoing throughout the house. She opened the door, then considered that she was wearing rags while whoever was out there might be wearing finery. She was dressed in a skirt and blouse handed down from Éponine, and she'd been dressed in them for days if not weeks. Perhaps they would laugh at her. But if they did she knew she wouldn't care, she was used to it.

She exited the room and walked across the landing. The voices were coming from behind a wooden door, and she opened it. In the room - a large room with cracked walls and huge red curtains- there was a woman perched on a table, surrounded by papers. She appeared to be instructing a small group of children, mostly Azelma's age, in the art of play-acting. She waved her hands theatrically, giving commands.

"Navet, you're doing it wrong. Your eyes are wrong."

"How should they be?" said Navet, who sounded like he was attempting sarcasm but his heart wasn't in it. "They're the only ones I have, can't change them."

"You _can_ , that's what acting is."

"How do I do it then, Léa?"

"Give your whole mind over to somebody else," Léa said. "Feel what they feel. Want what they want. _Understand_ them!" She noticed Azelma then.

"Hello. Have you come to join us? We have room for more."

Azelma shook her head and ran off without a word. There were too many people here, it reminded her of the prison she'd once been thrown in, and she wanted to be alone. She returned to the bedroom, but a woman was already there, making the bed.

"Don't!" Azelma cried, not even knowing what she was saying. "I have it how I like it."

The woman turned- it was the lady from last night, Madame Musichetta. She was wearing black now, a great black dress that cascaded to the floor. It was the sort of dress Azelma knew her mother would have _killed_ to own, although of course her mother was long past such things now.

"Very well," said the Lady.

Azelma circled her warily, trying to ascertain if she really was a threat. She didn't look like one. She looked like she had once been young and happy, but something had come along to rapidly age her. Her brown eyes shone with a sad passion, like 'Ponine's had once done, and her nails were bitten.

"Do you mean to- to _keep_ us?" Azelma asked. "What is this place?"

"It is a school," said the Lady.

Azelma had never been to school. Éponine had tried to teach her reading and writing, but she had been as sullen a teacher as Azelma had been a student. "Oh."

"And I do not remotely mean to keep you. The very thought appalls me." Azelma thought suddenly of the men and women her father would be _keeping_. She sought to change the subject.

"How many children are here?" she asked.

"Five have rooms here. Others live elsewhere but come here to learn."

"Am I one of the five?"

"If you wish to be."

Azelma considered things. Outside the sun was shining, and it was glinting off the mirror. She wished that neither were there.

"I would like to stay," she said, hoping she sounded dignified.

"Good," said Musichetta.

*

Azelma was shown to another room where many clothes were laid out on the bed. The sight made her uncomfortable, although she wasn't sure why. She picked out a blue dress and retreated to her bedroom to change. Muschietta nodded approvingly when she came out.

"The colour of the sky," she said.

Azelma had still dared not look in a mirror. She and her sister had once played a game of dressing a mangy little cat in doll clothes, and she imagined she herself now resembled that cat. "What do I do with myself now I'm dressed like a lady?"

"Whatever you choose, but you have to have breakfast first."

She had not considered even once that she might be given _food_ , she was used to going hungry for long periods at a time. But as she descended the stairs she realised she could smell something cooking, and she felt sick, she doubted she would be able to eat much. Meat and cheese and butter, when she'd lived on bread for weeks!

Downstairs, a small boy sat at a table. He was aged somewhere between four and six (it was hard to tell) and he was as ill-mannered as Gavroche had once been, stuffing food into his mouth and spraying the table with crumbs. Azelma knew he was another child from the streets, left there at an even younger age than her, and he looked like he could be her brother. Another brother. A younger one.

"This is Jori," said Musichetta, before she left.

Azelma sat now. The boy ignored her and focused on his food, so Azelma ignored him too. She was served some sort of porridge: it wasn't tasty but she devoured it. The little boy stared at her curiously, but then was distracted by Pierre coming into the room.

"You're still here!" he said to Azelma. He clambered onto the chair next to her before she had the chance to tell him not to. "This is my brother, Jori." He gestured towards the youngest child, who was still eating. "Did I tell you, I had a brother?"

"Yes," Azelma said, although in truth she couldn't remember.

"Will you stay here with us?" he asked her.

"I am staying," she said. The _with us_ made her uncomfortable. No-one had ever stayed with _her_. "I've never been to school."

"Madame Pontmercy teaches me to read," Pierre said, "and Léa tells me about people and plays and books. But only Musichetta lives here, this used to be her house."

"So much house for one small woman!"

"I don't think it was _always_ just her."

He sounded quite a bit older when he said that. Azelma stepped down from her chair. The old woman who had provided her porridge silently took her bowl away.

"You should come upstairs," Pierre said. "Lea has a room just for painting and drawing. She would let you paint."

"What use have I for _painting_?" Azelma snapped. Having so much food in her belly felt wrong, and her new dress itched and pinched. "Tell me. All the money needed for such a school, for the feeding and shelter of children, where has it come from? Food, clothes, beds, books! Did they spring from thin air?"

"Madame Musichetta has recently come into an inheritance," spoke up the old woman.

Her words somehow made all of them quieten, and Azelma thought of her mother. Suddenly she missed her terribly. "I want to return to my room," she said.

*

She did. She sat on her bed and pulled at her dress: it didn't fit her properly, it hadn't been made for her. It probably looked very stupid indeed.

There was a moth fluttering in the room and she opened the window to let it out. She took the opportunity to breathe in the fresh air, and to look out at what was below her. She had never seen the streets of Paris from such an angle before.

Someone knocked on the door. Azelma didn't want to open it, but then they knocked again, and she was filled with the fear that it might be her father, so she went to the door. A woman not much older than herself stood there. It was Léa, the acting instructor, the one who had told Pierre about people and plays and books.

"Hello," she said. "Are you Azelma? You'll be bored in here by yourself."

Azelma shrugged.

"I'm Léa. Léa Grantaire. You should come with me, there's art and music upstairs." She offered her hand. Azelma just looked at it. "It must be better than being here alone."

"I would have no talent for art or music," Azelma told her flatly.

"That's what they all say. Come!"

She reminded Azelma too much of Éponine. She followed her out of the door.

"You've lost someone. You're grieving?" Léa asked, leading her up a flight of stairs. "Looking into your eyes, I think all the signs are there."

"Yes." Azelma said. This was all she needed, a mind-reader. "How do you know?" It came out as a snap.

"Because I have, too."

She surely hadn't lost _everyone_ all in one go. Azelma just nodded, and trudged unhappily after her.

*

The attic room was dusty and smelled of paint. Many canvases lay around, some crudely splattered with colour, some host to beautiful pictures of landscapes and people. A violin was propped up against a chair, and that was splashed with paint as well. Everything was. It had a dreamlike feel.

"It smells bad," Azelma said haughtily.

A boy sitting in the midst of it all looked up at her. It was Navet, the sarcastic child from earlier. Beyond him, by the window, there sat a very young girl who seemed not to acknowledge them. Léa crossed the room and went to sit next to her, cradling her.

"It smells _fine_ ," Navet said to Azelma. "What's your name?"

"Azelma Thenardier."

He gave a little snort, as if she were highly privileged by having _two_ names. "I'm this school's first student," he said. He turned to look at Lea, and then ran his hand over one of the canvases. "It's an odd sort of school. Reminds me more of the theatre."

Azelma nodded. She had been to the theatre only twice, with Gavroche. He had seemed to enjoy it. This boy was starting to remind her of him.

"Your skin is very dark," she said.

Navet raised his hand and looked at it, feigning astonishment. "So it is!" He gave her a cross look. "A shock! A catastrophe! And you would think I'd have some memory of it, having been reminded _every day_!"

"All right," Azelma said, embarassed and slightly guilty. "I'm sorry!"

He stared at her for a good few seconds and then seemed to just let it go. "See that girl there?" He pointed to the girl in the window, the little one in Léa's arms. "She doesn't speak. Or I've never heard her. Madame Pontmercy found her on the street and brought her here, but she's never said a word to any of us apart from her name. She's Corinne."

Corinne's eyes flickered towards them at the sound of her name, but she did no more than that.

"But you like to paint, don't you, my Corinne?" said Léa to her. "And you like to hear my music." Corinne gave a tiny, tiny nod. Léa reached over, took the violin, and started to play. A sad, slow tune echoed out over the room.

"I don't understand," Azelma said. These were the words that had been burning in her brain ever since she awoke, that had struck constantly like the chimes of a clock against her skull. "What do you want me to _do_?"

She wasn't speaking to Léa as such, she wasn't really speaking to anyone. But Léa stopped playing for a moment and said,

"Nothing, except what _you_ want to do. Don't you understand? This can be your home now."


	3. Girls, Women and Ladies

Three days passed, and then, before Azelma knew it, a week, and then another. She awoke every day feeling clastrophobic and uncomfortable, but her life and losses had forced her into pragmatism. She had to remain in the house, no matter how alien she found it, or instead almost certainly die on the street.

"Why do they keep boys and girls together here?" she asked Navet one day, keeping her tone neutral. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"It's not like I sleep in your bed," Navet said. "Anyway, who's saying _boy_? I'm a man."

"How old are you?" It was hard to guess.

"Thirteen."

"Fifteen," Azelma answered for herself. Navet shook his head in surprise.

"You don't look it. You look younger than me, even in that dress."

Azelma knew she looked younger than she was, and she considered it an advantage. On the street, in the house, wherever you went girls were treated differently from _women_. "I like this dress."

"It's the sort of thing _old_ people like," said Navet. "I expect it was a hand-me-down from Madame Musichetta's mother. Perhaps it is the one she was buried in, and they dug it up for you!"

"Hush, children," said Léa, passing by. And then, after a pause, "Stop talking about such horrible things." She was talking to Navet, and Azelma thought perhaps it was for her benefit. She had confided to Léa, in passing, that her sister and brother were buried but she didn't know where. She had told her, too, that she still had nightmares of being below ground with them, and although they did not _blame_ her for their predicament, they seemed so sad and jealous that she was still alive...

"I'm hungry," said Navet, and wandered off. Azelma finished the bread and butter she was picking at, and went after Léa. She found her in the attic room, playing the violin for little Corinne again, and she sat and listened for a while though she didn't know if she was wanted. Léa gave her nod which implied she probably was, but Azelma didn't feel at home around beautiful music, or _any_ beautiful things.

"S'time you ventured into the outside world, Azelma," said Léa once she'd finished. "Don't you reckon? I've got- I mean, my brother-" Her expression became not just sad but _angry_ for a split second, and Azelma almost felt herself flinch, because she had seen her mother's face do that too. "My mother sold a painting my brother completed before his death. Isn't that always the way with artists? They must die for the work to have meaning? Anyway, it sold for more money than my family's ever seen. And I have a good portion of that money now, to do what I want with- I want to buy clothes, and jewellery, and books. I know it's selfish but I don't care. I want you all to join me in my selfishness- come out with me, I'll buy you gifts. _You_ shall have dolls and teddies, Corinne." Corinne nodded, her face a little O of shock. "Azelma? What do you say?"

Azelma had no idea what to say. Although the idea repulsed her in a way she couldn't explain, here was money being offered and she would be foolish not to take it. Her father would've raged, would've struck her, at the thought. "Come out with you? Like your servant? I am to carry your bags?"

"No!" Léa said. She looked incredulous and hurt. "We've been in close proximity for weeks, I have been your _teacher_ , you think we're not friends?" Léa had indeed been, in a loose sense, Azelma's teacher. She had read her, Corinne and Navet almost all of Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet._ It had reminded Azelma of Éponine and made her retreat to her room and cry silently. "You think so little of people."

"People have always thought little of _me_ ," Azelma responded, more in resignation than anger. "I would like to come. I want to act like a lady. How much money did you say you've come into?"

"Enough, and more," said Léa. "I consider it a gift from my brother."

Azelma felt a flash of curiosity about Léa's brother, and that lead to consideration of Léa herself, and that lead to shock and discomfort that Léa had called her _friend_. Azelma did not have friends or want any, and Léa was almost rich, and almost beautiful, and from a different world entirely. She was not friend material.

*

Yet they walked down the street as friends might. They only had each other for company, and Azelma noted with dismay that they could pass for sisters. The thought felt horrible in her mind, because of course her real sister was dead, dead, _dead_.

"I'll buy you a parasol," said Léa, and she did. They walked past statues and ornate fountains- things Azelma had never seen or noticed in her life- then Léa lingered for a long time in the toy shop, and then they sat in a cafe. Azelma was uncomfortable, and she knew Léa knew she was uncomfortable too.

"You're always looking at the door, like you fear someone bursting in," Léa said. Azelma was angry she had pointed it out.

"Well? Life is dangerous," she answered. And after a very long pause, she said, "My sister and brother - and mother! - would agree."

"I know," Léa said gently. Neither of them said anything for a while. Azelma examined her new parasol with a sense of wonder she tried to hide, and Léa nibbled at the cake she had ordered. Then she said, "I sometimes wake up hating my brother, you know."

"Oh?" said Azelma, dropping her parasol. She fumbled on the floor to retrieve it, in a very unladylike manner that drew some irritated stares. Once she had it back in her hands she said, "Why?"

"Because he threw his life away," Léa said. "He died on a barricade, you see, during the revolt." Azelma almost dropped the parasol again, and began to grip it so tight that her fingers hurt. "And I don't know why. He didn't believe in revolution, he didn't believe in anything. He would sooner have been at home drinking, I think. And yet-"

She didn't finish that sentence, and, although her curiousity was piqued, Azelma was glad. They exited the cafe looking like all the other well-dressed ladies of the city, even though they were not, and began to head home. Azelma wondered where the street her siblings had died on was relative to where she was now. Had she accidentally gone past it? She was sure it was near.

"Corinne will like the toys I have for her," Léa said with a hint of pride.

"Yes. Thank you for the parasol," Azelma said to her. It was the same colour as one of her mother's old dresses, she realised. She thought she would have preferred to leave it on her mother's grave rather than keep it, had she only known where she was buried.

*

When they returned, Léa handed Corinne a beautiful doll. It stirred a definite feeling of jealousy in Azelma, although she didn't know why, she was much too old for dolls. She retreated to her bedroom, and found herself looking for the clothes she had arrived at the house in. She couldn't find them.

She could hear the others talking downstairs. Navet, Léa, Pierre and the other brother whose name she had all but forgotten...she wondered where Madame Musichetta was. It was curiousity, rather than a desire to socialise, that drove her downstairs. Aside from anything else, she wondered how these people could be _friends_ \- how Léa could care for a girl who was not her sister and expect nothing in return, how children could sit at a table with adults and not fear them-

Azelma lurked by the door, and listened. Léa's voice was strained and sad, and Azelma realised she was talking about her brother, and that she probably talked about him to whoever was around to listen. The room was quiet, even the youngest child was, as Léa spoke.

"They found my brother dead on the floor of the wineshop," she said. She was looking at Navet, and Azelma wondered what he had said to prompt this. "He was not the only one there. I saw the scene from the doorway, but my mother forbade me to enter the room. The blood on the floor was sticky, and everything smelled in the heat." Pierre and his brother both fidgeted nervously. Azelma wished she had omitted that detail.

"One body was nailed to the wall by bullets, his blood splattered behind him like two red wings. Others lay on the ground with holes in their chests. My brother was one of these. He was nearest the window, and I never saw his face, my mother sent me away. From my only brother, lying there alone! I passed other women weeping on the stairs."

Azelma could imagine it easily: hear the crying, even, and suddenly the ghosts of Éponine and Gavroche seemed very, very near.

"They say my brother still reeked of alcohol," said Léa, "that when someone knelt beside him to check he was dead they recoiled at the smell."

She was silent for some moments and Azelma thought she had finished. But then, her hands clasped together and her eyes far away, she carried on.

"My mother told me those sent to clear the bodies afforded him no respect at all, that they took the coins from his pocket and hurled him on the cart with the others. She begged them to show a little kindness, but they laughed and threw the coins at her feet. She cried on the bloodied paving-stones, and I cursed my brother, I _cursed_ him. He didn't care for his country, why should he fight for it? I felt he had died to spite us, though Rene wasn't capable of spite in the slightest. Perhaps one day the hatred will lessen. But-" and here she turned away from them, "what does it really matter in the end what I feel? He's still dead. From here on he will _always_ be dead."

Azelma stared out of the window and thought of her family. Navet on the other hand looked at the ground, and it occured to Azelma that _he_ most likely had no family, and had never had them.

"Do you wish to speak, Azelma?" Lea suddenly asked. Azelma shook her head. "You look so sad," she continued. "I hope that's not my fault."

"No," Azelma said, although in truth she wasn't sure. "My sister and my brother- they were sixteen and, and _ten_ \- they were probably on that same cart."

Lea smiled sadly. "Then you should have this," she said, and slid a silver coin across the table. Azelma snatched it up without a word- this was a habit, done without thinking. She stared at it, wondering what she would spend it on, before remembering it was a souvenir of a man's death. Yet Lea just looked at her, no judgement in her eyes at all, and nodded encouragingly.

"You should buy a doll, or a parasol, for yourself," she said.


End file.
